


sleepover in the moon room

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Adorable, Domestic, Gen, M/M, Nail Polish, Platonic Relationships, Reality, Sleepovers, or non-platonic, you decide how to read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: It's a tradition they've had for yearsNote: this was written with the intent that it can be read completelyplatonicallyornon-platonically, whichever you prefer. It's not written to imply one way or another.





	sleepover in the moon room

“Phil, I swear to _god_ if you forgot the popcorn again…” I call as I shove my shoulder into the door - a little too hard, apparently, as it bounces against the wall and has the audacity to shove back at me. _For fuck’s sake..._

“ _I bought a whole box on Monday!_ ” The voice shouts down from upstairs, and I smirk.

“And you ate _how much_ since then?” I drop all the shit in my arms on the bed, barely catching the bottle of blue nail polish before it rolls off.

The silence is answer enough, and I roll my eyes. And, because it’s Phil, a smirk tugs at my cheek and I shake my head.

“Did _you_ remember the blankets?” Phil asks from behind me, evidently having just entered the room. I spin around to find him holding a bowl of freshly popped popcorn; the smell hits me a moment later - _slightly burnt._ I grin at him, pleased he’s gotten it right, then wave an arm toward my bed.

“Think we have enough this time?” I had gone digging in every closet and even stole the two I know Phil keeps hidden in his dresser, so there’s quite a pile. 

“We’ll be the _coziest ever_ ,” Phil laughs, then sets the bowl on my bedside table so he can flop on top of the blankets; I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my throat. 

When he shows no inclination to move, even going so far as to express his comfort by way of a groan that ends up muffled by the layers of fluffy fabric, I find myself once again rolling my eyes. By the time I’ve made my way past his legs - stuck out _very inconveniently_ in my way - and over to the popcorn, he’s rolled over enough to stare at me.

“What?” I lift my brows, popping a piece of popcorn in my mouth. _For testing purposes._ But Phil just beams at me, his signature ‘ _I have no reason for it except you make me smile_ ’ look. “Quit it,” I bat at his shoulder, leaning over both him and the bed to actually reach it, and nearly spill the popcorn in the process.

I catch myself with a hand on the edge of the mattress before I can fall, though, and everything stays miraculously upright.

“Come on, help me set everything up,” I glance sideways at Phil, who’s still laying on the bed and just watching me. “Oh, don’t give me that look, like you’re the _king_ of coordination,” I purse my lips when he smirks. A moment later, I’ve set the bowl aside on the floor, and I tug a blanket out from under where Phil _still hasn’t moved._

“Hey! I was comfy!” He protests, pouting at me and collecting the rest of the blankets under him; I’m briefly reminded of a dragon gathering its hoard of gold into a pile beneath its belly.

“You always complain that I set it up wrong,” I point out, tossing the first blanket into a lump on the floor. Phil peeks up from where he’s ducked back into the blankets, eyes squinting as he surveys my first efforts.

“Well that’s because you _do_ do it all wrong!” He groans, rolling off the mattress and frowning as he stares down at the single blanket. A moment later, he’s sat down to rearrange it, and I shake my head. Because I can, I grab another blanket and toss it at his head.

“ _Dan!_ ” 

I clamp a hand over my mouth to hide the smirk, but it’s too late; Phil’s already throwing the blanket back at me, a wad of fluff smacking me in the face and making me stumble back into the edge of the bed.

By the time I regain any kind of composure, Phil’s broken down into a fit of giggles himself, so I make a point of launching blankets at him.

“Dan, stop!” He barely gets the words out through breathy laughter, one hand up in defense while the other tries to shield his now-messy hair from any further damage. Eventually, I run out of ammo, and he takes a deep breath and tries to comb his fingers through the wayward, staticky chaos on his head.

My cheeks hurt from grinning, and I can tell Phil’s the same way, with how hard he’s trying to pout and how miserably he’s failing at it.

“Go on,” I gesture at him, leaning back against the bed. “Set it up how you like, or I’ll never hear the end of how _uncomfortable_ you are.” With another attempted frown that ends up being more of an almost-smile, he turns back to his assigned task. Honestly, I’d tried to pay attention the first few times he’d gone about rearranging things to his satisfaction, but I still can’t pin down any kind of rhyme or reason. 

But we both usually end up pretty damn comfortable, so he must be onto something that I can’t identify. I cross my arms, watching him adjust the pile of blankets into a pillowy circle on the floor. He pauses, fingers splayed out as he checks his work, then turns to stare at me.

My eyebrows shoot up, then I nod - he needs the final piece to the artwork he’s creating. I sweep an arm across the bed, trying to push all the remaining items off the top of my duvet so I can tug it from my mattress and pass one edge over to Phil. Then he’s stood up across from me, and we lower the duvet to the ground.

Then Phil drops down on the blanket pile, wiggling on his butt to test the level of comfort. I wait in silence; a moment later, he beams up at me and nods his approval.

I shake my head, smiling back at him, and collect as much from my bed as I can manage: the absolute necessities being the nail polish, the straightener, and one of those silly make-your-own Japanese sweets PJ had brought back from his visit as a gift for Phil.

I’ve only been turned around for a second, but Phil has somehow already got the bowl perched in his lap and a handful of popcorn shoved in his mouth. 

“Don’t you _dare_ eat it all,” I grumble, lowering myself to sit across from him and trying not to drop anything. Once my ass is safely sat on the cushiony pile of blankets, my armload of things rolling off and onto the duvet, I snatch the bowl from Phil’s lap to mine and pop a few pieces into my mouth.

When his lips turn down in a pout, I _know_ it’s just for the sake of being a pain, but I hate to see him frown; I immediately relinquish the bowl - well, it goes to a spot beside our knees.

“Where we can _both_ get to it,” I emphasize, but this seems to mollify him enough, as he grins and takes another handful of popcorn. “Do you want to go first?” I offer, slightly buttery hand slipping as I grab the bottle of light blue nail polish. He’d let me pick, pretending as if he didn’t know I always choose this color for him - it’s a shimmery pale blue that matches his eyes _eerily_ perfectly.

His gaze flicks between the bottle I’ve raised in front of my face and the mostly-full bowl of popcorn, and I shake my head with a resigned sigh that honestly ends up sounding more like a chuckle.

“Fine, you bloody _princess_ ,” I stare at the ceiling for a moment, wondering exactly _how_ I got here. Some might use the term ‘ _whipped_ ’, but I honestly can’t be bothered - I won’t admit it aloud, but I sort of enjoy taking care of him.

“Thank you!” Phil draws out the syllables, earning yet another head shake from me. It’s nights like tonight that I wonder if I can accidentally cause myself some kind of brain trauma from all the exasperated-yet-fond earthquakes I put my head through.

A moment later, he’s sticking out his left hand. _Right, the one closer to the food, so it’ll dry first and he can eat faster._ I try to roll my eyes at him, but he’s just beaming at me, so it ends up being more of a stare. 

My first attempt at opening the nail polish ends in slippery frustration, so I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and use the edge of my shirt for extra friction on the lid. Which works so well that the bottle near jerks out of my hand, one second away from ruining my duvet. _Why’s it we always use_ my _duvet for this?_

“ _Oooohoohooo_ ,” we say at the same time, wide-eyed and catching each other’s terrified looks. Then we’re both laughing, and my free hand flies over my heart as I exhale a deep breath.

“You actually _are_ a butterfingers!” Phil jokes, a stupid reference to one of my oldest videos. It never fails to shock me how he still remembers, how he remembers almost _everything_. _Except to blow out candles before he leaves…_

“Oi, shut up, or I’ll make your nails look like shit,” it’s a threat I’ve no intention of sticking to - ever the perfectionist - but it has the intended effect of making Phil clamp his mouth shut. Even if it’s just to give me a cheeky grin that says he’s still laughing about it in his head. I squint at him, but ultimately decide to let it go. 

Instead, I reach for his hand, which he’d pulled back a bit with our momentary freak-out. Still smirking, he lets me tug it closer; I stare down at his impeccably groomed nails before returning my attention to the bottle of polish, positioning it in my hand so I can hold it and keep Phil steady at the same time.

He’s always very quiet as he watches me, possibly because I kept glaring at him the first few times and refused to actually answer his distracting questions. The silence helps me focus. And, if I’m being honest and certainly not too full of myself, I think I’ve actually improved over time.

Really, I should probably do at least three coats, with how translucent the color is, but Phil can hardly sit still long enough for two - even now, halfway through the second coat, he’s groping awkwardly under his extended arm in the hopes of grabbing a handful of popcorn to munch on.

“ _Dan_ ,” he draws out my name, breaking my focus. I glance up to find him pouting at me, right arm crossed awkwardly under the elbow of his extended left one. “Help, please?” He stares pointedly at the bowl of popcorn beside us, apparently too far out of his reach.

“And people think _I’m_ the needy one,” I mumble under my breath. _God forbid anyone get between Phil and his food_ …

But, because it’ll make him happy, I pause my work to grab a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl. Phil grins at me, then drops his mouth open, waiting for me to feed him. _Fucking princess._

“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy,” I mime a throwing motion until his eyes widen, and I laugh. But then they narrow.

“Do it!” He challenges, opening his mouth as wide as he can. I briefly debate missing on purpose, but then we’ll have popcorn pieces scattered everywhere, and I’ll have to deal with it just as much as Phil will. So I do my best to aim, though he’s only a couple feet away, and take the first shot.

“Ooooh! Watch out, Michael Jordan!” I say, laughing as Phil munches on his successfully-caught popcorn. But, because he’s a bloody glutton, he’s dropped his mouth open a second later, demanding another. “Should I just dump the bowl in your mouth, then?” I tease, opting to feed him the other pieces normally so I can get back to his nails.

Phil just grins as he chews, evidently satisfied for the time being; meanwhile, I do my best to focus on finishing the last two fingers, then survey my work. _Hm, not the worst I’ve ever done._ A spot of blue catches my eye, and I use my own nail to clean the side of his, then let him go to reach for his other hand. 

Obediently, he extends it out, blowing gently on his finished nails. 

Now that his mouth is otherwise occupied, he doesn’t bother me for more snacks, and I’m able to finish quickly - it’s been a while since we last did this, so I’m admittedly rusty, but once I’ve finished, I have him hold both hands out for me. _The right is definitely better,_ I conclude, _but both are still decent._ I know they’ll be ruined by tomorrow, as Phil has absolutely no self-control, but it’s not really about the actual outcome so much as the process.

“Alright, let that dry, and let me check this,” I tap lightly on the mostly-dry nails of his left hand, pleased that he’s not messed them up yet - it wouldn’t be the first time he got distracted and forgot about the wet polish whilst trying to grab something. 

“Can I do your hair next, though? You know how bad I am at nails,” Phil notes, staring at his own nails almost as intently as I had. “They look fantastic, as always,” he says, grinning up at me. You’d think after literally almost a _decade_ of hearing his praise - every video, post, tweet, selfie, and so on - that it wouldn’t affect me much, but I turn away with a blush.

“Sure, go for it,” I ignore his other comment, except to file it away in the back of my head as a reason to smile later - some other day, when I don’t feel much like smiling. Right now, I’m smiling plenty. “But!” I grab his wrist as it reaches for the straightener, “be careful! I will be _very pissed_ if you fuck your nails up after I’ve only just finished them,” I lift an eyebrow at him, an expression he’s never been able to master, and he nods with just the right amount of seriousness to satisfy me.

He leans back, allowing me to untangle the cord for the straightener and plug it in behind me. Once it’s started heating up, I set it on the floor, exceptionally cautious since that time we’d burned a hole in one of Phil’s favorite blankets - _before_ we’d thought to bring the duvet into the picture, fortunately for me but not so much for Phil.

“Think they’re done?” I turn at his voice to find him squinting at his nails, then holding them out to see how they reflect the light. The answer is ‘ _very nicely_ ’, which I know because I’ve seen it dozens of times before. 

“Come here,” I grab at the air, waiting for him to show me his hands, and he gives them a final glance before extending them for my approval. 

_Left is probably safe, the right...needs a minute._

“You can eat, but be _really_ careful,” I fix him with a hard gaze until he looks up and nods. “Left hand only,” I add, and he picks a piece of popcorn from the bowl with an adorable amount of caution. 

A moment later, he’s tossed it in his mouth, and he immediately scans his nails for any damage. Then breaks into a grin when he’s found nothing wrong. This continues for several minutes as we wait for the straightener to heat up fully. Watching Phil has me getting antsy, though - not for his nails, he knows I’m watching and he’s being especially careful. It’s more that I’m anxious to have his fingers running through my hair again.

Whenever either of us straightens our own hair, it’s a quick and uneventful affair, the end goal being just to get straight hair. And of course, I’ve stopped that cumbersome process completely. But nights like this, it’s more like sitting at a salon, and Phil enjoys making an event of straightening my hair. I enjoy it, too - it’s nice to be taken care of, but it’s even nicer to have his hands brushing through my hair during the process, a bit like a massage.

Phil must notice the light stop flashing on the straightener, because he waves me over with his now-buttery fingers, and I wince as he wipes them on his sweatpants. 

“ _Phil_ ,” I groan, and his eyes widen as he splays out his fingers to check the polish. When he exhales, I roll my eyes, and he presents the nails for my review. I take his hand, inspecting each finger carefully, but he seems to have avoided any damage.

“Sorry, I promise I’ll be more careful!” He gestures at me again, and I give him a final ‘ _you’d better be_ ’ look before scooting over. “Okay, just a bit closer,” he grips my shoulders, guiding me until he has me in the right spot.

Before I have to ask, he’s running his fingers through my hair - probably messing it up more than anything - and I lean a bit into his hands, enjoying the feeling.

“Ready?” He asks, reaching over to where the straightener’s sat, and I give some kind of noise that I’m sure he understands as an affirmation. His fingers pause in my hair as he focuses on the hot metal in his right hand, and I follow its progress before realizing something’s missing.

“Wait! Wait, hold on,” I lean away, frowning a bit at the loss of the comforting touch against my scalp. _But popcorn is important._ I drag the bowl over, setting it in my lap, and Phil lets out a short laugh before grabbing a hasty handful for himself. “ _Careful!_ ” I shout, mouth wide.

“Sorry!” Phil says, voice muffled around a mouthful of popcorn and a grin. He is most definitely _not_ sorry.

“You better fucking enjoy that, it might be the last you get if you’ve fucked up my hard work!” I shove at him halfheartedly, not enough to really hurt.

“It’s fine!” He ‘ _oof_ ’s when the blow lands and swats my arm. “Nothing’s messed up,” he assures me of this by sticking his hand in front of my face, nails only a few inches from my eyes. I frown, squinting again, but he seems to be correct.

“Fine, but _be more careful_ ,” I stress the words, hoping he’ll actually listen and knowing full well he’ll forget in two minutes.

But I can’t be bothered to complain when his method of forgetting involves reaching up and running his fingers through my hair again, presumably to comb it into something manageable or perhaps to decide where he wants to start. I never ask, he never says, we just both agree that we enjoy it, so he does it.

Phil’s hand pauses, then tugs gently at whatever strip of hair he must have decided to start with. Then he’s picking up the straightener, clacking it like a pair of tongs, and I’d shake my head if I wasn’t acutely aware of the heat now pressing close to my scalp. 

There’s a pull as Phil drags the straightener across that section, then it releases and his fingers comb through the spot a moment later. The warmth combined with the tingly sensation of his hand is enough to make my eyes drift shut, utterly _content_ ; it’s a feeling I’d never thought I could have even just a few years ago, but here I am. 

Phil continues this process rhythmically for some time - how long, I have no clue - and I lose myself in the repetition and comfort: his fingers separating out a lock of hair, the warmth of the straightener and the gentle tug that follows, then more fingers as he combs through and searches for another spot to work on. It’s immensely soothing. If Phil were willing to do this every day, I might never have gone back to my natural hair.

“There, all done,” Phil’s words reach my ears through a sleepy fog, and it takes a moment for them to properly register. At which point, I frown. _Too soon_. 

“You didn’t miss anything?” I ask, as though he’s not been doing his own hair for over a decade. But my words have their intended effect, and his hand cards through my hair again a few times, searching for any wayward curls.

“No,” he chuckles, “you’re all set.” Then his hand disappears, and my head feels cool despite all the heat just applied to it.

I hold back a disappointed noise, instead digging into the bowl in my lap - I’d honestly forgotten that the popcorn was even there. I munch on a few pieces, and it’s distraction enough as I run my unoccupied hand through the fringe now falling into my eyes. 

“Is it good?” Phil asks, breaking my concentration on my own fingers brushing through my hair. For half a second, I debate a snarky remark - _of course, you spork, how long have you been doing this?_

Instead, I set the bowl aside - which he quickly grabs and digs into as he watches me - and stand, climbing up onto my bed to take a look at my reflection in the moon mirror over my headboard. It’s a bit blurred from the etched design, but my hair falls perfectly straight across my forehead - 2010 Dan would’ve sold his soul to get his fringe exactly like this. _He’d maybe have preferred it a bit longer_. I grimace as the horrifying hair-related memories of that era surface. 

“I _did_ miss a bit, didn’t I!” The bed dips behind me as Phil climbs up and shuffles closer; I can see his frown reflected in the mirror.

“No, of course you didn’t,” my tone has lost all the original sarcasm I’d meant to put in it, but I still roll my eyes at the blurred version of Phil staring at me. Then I turn to properly face him, running my hand through my fringe for good measure. “See?”

He reaches out, brushing a few stray pieces into place on my forehead the way he does when its his own hair he’s trying to find fault in, tilting his head and squinting a bit.

“Alright,” he concedes, shifting back to sit on his heels. “Sure you want me to do your nails?” His eyebrows arch up his forehead, and I know he’s thinking back to the last time I’d asked. To say it had been a disaster would probably be the nicest way of putting it.

“Of course I do. I asked, didn’t I?” I scoff, climbing off the bed and back down to the blanket pile on the floor. Phil’s brows scrunch together, then he joins me - we both remember at the very last second that he still needs to be careful of his own nails, and he stares at me as he drops down heavily, trying not to use his hands to slow his descent.

“Be warned, I haven’t improved,” he cautions, checking his nails before I even have to ask, “it won’t look this good.” He glances up, eyes wide like he’s still waiting for me to change my mind. But it’s never about the quality of the job - and polish doesn’t stick to skin for too long - it’s about that feeling of contentment. 

These nights are, have always been, about just being _happy_ for a while. 

“Phil,” I tilt my head, purse my lips. “Paint my damn nails already.” I stick my arm out - the left one, so I can shove another handful of popcorn in my mouth - and Phil twists around, searching for wherever the black polish has gone. “Behind your knee,” I advise around a mouthful, and he finds it and holds it up triumphantly.

Again, I’m shaking my head, rolling my eyes. Smiling in spite of myself.

“Ready?” He asks, untwisting the lid with more ease than I’d managed earlier. I nod, ignoring the unsaid ‘ _are you_ sure _you’re sure?_ ’ in his tone. He’s not nearly as coordinated as I am with the nail polish, so he ends up setting the bottle on the floor beside the blankets, dipping into it and quickly bringing the brush over to my hand. 

I’m not superstitious, but I am very sure I’m able to see the future in that moment: _the brush will drip, a blob of black polish forever staining my duvet. Or maybe he’ll be reaching awkwardly and knock the bottle over in his rush, and we’ll end up with a splatter all over the floor._

“Phil, this is a _horrible_ plan,” I flip my hand so it’s cupped under the overloaded brush and set the popcorn aside to grab him by the wrist, then shuffle so I’m sat much closer to the bottle and do my best to drag him with me. “I swear, if you ruin my duvet,” I mumble.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, shifting himself so he’s sat across from me again. The brush has a much shorter journey from the bottle to my hand, and I exhale a little heavier than I mean to - apparently, I’d been holding my breath. Nerves crackle at the end of my skin, fizzling out a little now that I’m not so worried about getting black stains all over my duvet. Or our floor, though that’s still a possibility.

Honestly, I’m expecting Phil to check again, to try to get out of it one last time - not because he doesn’t want to do it, but more because he knows he won’t be satisfied with the end result - but then he’s pulling my hand closer and letting a blob of polish fall on my pinky. I do my best not to smirk as he tries to spread it, and it falls into the dip between my nail and skin. _Yeah, it’ll be a mess._

I use my free hand to grope for the bowl of popcorn, no longer close enough to dig into, and drag it toward us as I watch him. The first finger he’s done has far too thick a coat, the second far too thin as he tries to overcompensate, and I toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth and just smile at him. The cold polish gives me a strange feeling, but it’s calming.

Unfortunately, I can’t just fall into the same liminal space I’d been in before, still too anxious about the safety of my duvet - but I can and _do_ watch the expressions on Phil’s face shift: first, his brows scrunch, clearly a little nervous and frowning at each small mistake. I’m tempted to remind him how little it really matters, but then his tongue has poked out through his teeth, lips turning up into something just between a smile and a frown. 

_It’d be rude of me to break his focus when he hadn’t interrupted mine._ Something about his scrunched brows and squinted eyes makes me feel immensely fond for a moment - appreciative not only for this exact moment, but for every single moment he’s been by my side for all these years. It’s a stupidly cheesy thought to have, but there it is, sitting in my head anyway. 

It wars with my instinct to make light of the situation, to crack a joke or say something sardonic. My mind is so immensely unused to the idea of being content, of just unashamedly _enjoying_ something without irony, that it wants to turn tail, to run and hide behind my usual sarcastic nature. My therapist said it’s not an uncommon reaction.

So I swallow every single quip that bubbles up in my throat and make my lips smile. They want to, deep down - it doesn’t take as much effort as I expected it to. Just then, Phil decides to look up, and I realize he’s finished with my hand. Once again, I’ve fully forgotten the popcorn. I shove a hasty handful into my mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Phil asks, apparently in reference to my grin. “I _told_ you it’d be bad!” He whines, lifting my hand in his to peer closer at it, tilting it just out of my line of sight.

“No,” I shake my head, though I haven’t actually _seen_ the final results of his efforts. “I’m sure it’s fine, let me see.” He relinquishes my hand, lips twisting in a half-frown. _Definitely not the best I’ve seen._ I tilt my head, squinting at the spots where black polish has extended far past my nail. _But not the worst, either._ “It’s great,” I announce after a moment.

Phil’s brows arch up his forehead, an almost-smile on his lips, but I ignore his disbelief in favor of sticking out my other hand. 

“Go on, then, I have to match,” I wiggle my fingers until _he’s_ the one shaking his head for once, then he grabs my hand to stop my annoying movement. A moment later, his look of concentration has returned, tongue poking out from between his lips as he carefully applies the coat to the first nail.

This time, I focus on the sensation as much as I can, not allowing my thoughts to drift too far into sentimental territory. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d started crying one of these nights, but I know how Phil worries, and I doubt he’d believe the tears came from a place of happiness. 

As he reaches the nail of my middle finger, I lift my left hand to blow on the finished polish, hoping to dry it more quickly. In any case, it’ll still probably get messed up while we sleep, but I’d prefer it dry enough that it won’t rub off on anything. My breath feels warm on my fingers but cool on the drying nails.

Meanwhile, Phil’s onto my pinky, frowning when the polish runs out and he’s forced to dip back into the bottle, returning with just a bit too much. While my perfectionism is exceptionally well-known, Phil’s is rarely on display - but it’s obvious here, how much he cares: maybe about the nail, maybe about _me,_ or maybe both, but it’s evident. And so greatly appreciated, when it’s directed my way and not an obstacle _in_ my way, as it can sometimes be when we’re editing.

“Thank you,” I say, voice quieter than I meant it to be, when he finishes and releases my hand for review. _Just as messy, except maybe the thumb,_ I conclude. “Thank you,” I say again anyway, lower and full of a sincerity I hope he doesn’t ask about. _Thank you for every time you’ve been here for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I still don’t, but thank you anyway._

Of course, my eyeballs decide that now’s a great time to start watering, and I try to blink back the tears.

“Dan?” Phil’s voice is quiet, his hand reaches out to rest on my knee in a silent show of support that makes me choke out a sob I’d been doing an excellent job of holding back until that moment. When I look up from my hand, still trying to keep everything in, Phil’s tilted his head, forehead scrunched in concern.

“Good!” I manage, laughing as a tear actually falls down my cheek and lands on my arm. “Promise,” I add at his skeptical frown. I try to scoff, or laugh, or something of that nature, but it comes out as another sort of sob.

“Do you need a hug?” My eyes drift to the side, still leaking, and a smile curls my lips. _Always so amazingly supportive. I got damn lucky._ His hand leaves my knee, and I look back to find his arms spread wide, waiting for me. And, truth be told, a Phil hug sounds pretty good right now.

I shift up on my knees, mindful of my wet nails, and shuffle forward until I’m close enough to sort of fall into his chest. Once again, I’m winded by just how _lucky_ I am. How many people would actually kill for this moment. How seventeen-year-old me would’ve killed for this moment, when Phil was just some fantasy guy I’d watched on YouTube.

But it’s not a fantasy, not anymore, and his arms pull me in close, rubbing a soothing hand across my back. I rest my face in his shoulder, letting his t-shirt absorb the stupid happy tears that _won’t stop falling_. At least I’m not actually sobbing now, just sniffling a bit. I manage to keep my nails safely away from anything and still let my hands rest on his back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is still so gentle, careful not to push. I laugh into his shoulder - relieved it actually _sounds_ like a laugh - and pull away. Phil’s arms loosen around me, but his face is still scrunched up in concern, maybe confusion.

“I’m just…” I shake my head, staring up at the ceiling, willing the tears to go back into my eyes instead of spilling back over. It takes me a minute to keep from losing it again. “I’m _so fucking happy_ ,” I say finally, and grin at him. His whole face twitches, like he’s trying to decide which expression he should have, how to be supportive, but I blow right past it and keep talking. 

“Like, _so_ fucking happy?” My own incredulity makes me huff out a breath - that, and Phil’s finally settled on a confused-but-supportive half-smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my _entire_ life.” I’m acutely aware how poorly a job I’m doing of conveying _why_ I’m so damn happy, but Phil stays silent, waiting for me to continue. Trusting that I’m going somewhere with this.

“I mean, my mental health, sure,” I say, strangely pleased that I can brush that off so easily. That it doesn’t feel like a burden, at least not today. “But everything is just...it’s amazing?” I exhale, back to staring at the ceiling. “I mean the merch took ages but it’s out and people _like it,_ and I finally feel _comfortable_ , and like I’m doing something important with my life, something _meaningful_ , and...I don’t know…” I trail off, still a little overwhelmed at everything. At _everything._

“And the tour,” Phil chimes in, fully grinning now. I’m glad he’s seen past the tears, recognizes that whatever the hell is going on in my head at the moment, it isn’t a bad thing. He doesn’t have to worry.

“Oh god, and the _tour_ ,” I can’t fight the elation, suddenly gripped with the desire to just faceplant into the pile of blankets. “Phil, we’re going to see the _whole fucking world_.” I only remember my nails at the last second, rolling onto my back so I don’t accidentally mess them up. “The _whole_ world,” I repeat, in more of a whisper, “I’m _so fucking lucky_.”

Phil’s silent, but I’m staring at the ceiling so I can’t see his face, read his expressions like I normally would. I’m just glad the tears have stopped. Then there’s a flop beside me, and I turn to see Phil’s laid out next to me, staring at the ceiling as well.

“No,” he shakes his head, “see, _I’m_ the lucky one.” I frown at him, but it doesn’t last long, because then he’s grinning at me and I can’t help but smiling back. “I get to travel the whole world with my best friend.” 

My heart flips over in my chest, and my gut instinct returns to take over. With an eye roll. 

“Cheesy,” I accuse, nudging him with an elbow.

“Shut up, you love it,” he accuses right back with a chuckle. I’m tempted to just laugh it off.

“Yeah,” I say instead, “yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/172343157932/sleepover-in-the-moon-room)


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